Two Sides of the Same Coin
by Lizard2
Summary: Finished! - *SLASH* Love or Hate? Why do Darcy and Wickham loathe each other so much? This is my take on what *really* happened during those most tender years...
1. Prologue

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

Prologue

Smooth and rough. Hard and smooth. Magical and...sordid. A lover's touch inspires some of the most unimaginable and inimitable emotions. Tenderness, joy, spiritual fulfilment...and unhindered all-consuming lust.

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Our hero sits on a straw bail in the stables at Pemberley, watching the rats scrabbling in the dank corners of the stalls. Sandy brown hair and calm blue eyes coupled with a pleasing profile and well-developed physique declare hum to be a handsome youth. Though only 14, his height implies 'man' rather than 'boy' to the casual observer.

What, I hear you ask, is this young man doing sitting in the stables? His clothes do not look like those of the common farm hand – no, our hero (christened George) is son of the steward of the illustrious James Darcy, owner of the Pemberley estates.

Though his eyes are calm, one can detect the faint shimmer of tear held back and a slight irregularity in his breathing. On the outside he is like any idle adolescent who requires a quick wallop on the backside to get him to work. But on the inside, he boils – boils with rage, humiliation, vengeance.

His left hand is bandaged – indicating the broken wrist he obtained when stealing a ride on his master's prize thoroughbred. The horse's sleek, shining chestnut coat is a badge of being well looked-after – proof of its belonging to the privileged, the rich, the powerful, the beautiful.

George's hands burn to embrace these things – to be smiled upon by pretty young maids with fluttering lashes, to be able to control the lives of hundreds of people – have the money to bestow to them bountiful gifts, or to crush their worthless little lives with the ease and carelessness of a child killing a moth.


	2. The Kiss

Chapter 1 – The Kiss

George's stomach grumbled – he wills it to stop so he doesn't have to go home and face his father – but it continues and eventually he relents. The sun is beginning to set in the cold western moors, casting a dull, jaundiced orange over everything. As he walks along the river bank to his father's respectable cottage by the Pemberley rose gardens, a sharp sound of running water drifts from the trees on the other side of the river.

Here stands Carter, son of the head gardener, 17 years old and brutishly good-looking. Thick dark hair worn long and broad shouldered, he stands confident and unashamed as he urinates on the hapless shrubs at his feet. George stands and watches, politely waiting for him to finish his business. They have met each other before – George has often helped the gardeners when his father wanted to get rid of him.

As Carter buttons up his breeches, he turns and calmly looks at George as though he knew he'd had an audience. The right corner of his mouth lifts to form a lazy, appraising smirk. George feels Carter's eyes move up and down his body in lustful assessment of new goods delivered. There gazes then meet and both see the other's eyes glint in appreciation.

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They shared their first kiss 20 yards from George's home in broad daylight. Though similar in height, Carter was the stronger and so naturally initiated the embrace – but as George began to respond almost ferociously, fingers delving into hair and tongues sliding like frantic snakes, Carter let out a sudden groan of painful pleasure. This startling sound awoke George from his semi-conscious state, and he began to take note of things.

When he stroked the back of Carter's neck, the response was a quiet rumble of the voice box. Rubbing his hands down to Carter's buttocks produced a clenching of the fists and a more vigorous swirling of the tongue. Of course, George felt lust weakening him to, but through this haze of desire he realised that he could control Carter.

George, who ever since he was aware of the inferiority of his birth had longed to gain social status, suddenly felt like a king. This burly youth 3 years his senior was like wet clay in his hands, at least for a short while. Soon George's tenuous hold of the situation was dashed when Carter suddenly pushed him up against a tree to begin attacking his neck. The slightly tighter grip of his hands on Carter's shoulders was the only evidence of his irritation at having lost control. But our George is good at hiding his emotions, and as far as he was concerned, he was successfully sweeping George off his feet.


	3. The Privileged Boy

A/N Hiya, people! Hope at least one person will read this fic - please review, flamers not prohibited. I'm not sure where exactly this story is headed, so bear with me if it takes me ages to write new chapters.  
  
Chapter 2 - The Privileged Boy  
  
When we are young and in love, we think we will be in love forever, and when we are older, we know this is never true. After a few weeks of seemingly blissful rendezvous in the woods, George became older. He knew there was nothing wrong with Carter. He was as eager as he ever was, but new goods soon become old goods worthy of the wastebasket. He began noticing other people, male and female, young and old. One pretty young scullery maid captured his interest and within a week he captured her youthful body in a bed of itchy reeds by the riverbank.  
  
But once was more than enough. The girls were too easy to catch, too yielding. George enjoys a challenge as much as the next person, but what he most desires is quality, the elusive sort that cannot be earned but that one is born with - wealth, noble good looks, status, power. And there was but one person he knew who had all these qualities - Henry Fitzwilliam, son of the great James Darcy of Pemberley.  
  
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One year would pass before George Wickham and Henry Fitzwilliam Darcy were formally introduced. As the son of James Darcy's steward, George had many a chance to charm his way into the old man's benevolent heart, and his money purse. George's good looks and perfect manners soon had old Darcy falling head over heels in love with him. He determined to send George to Eton, and then to Cambridge, in the hope that he would become a great man who would do a lot of charitable good for the world around him.  
  
Then the day came when George met Henry. He was working with his father in the steward's study when Mr Darcy and son strolled in to greet them - the former with genuine pleasure, the latter with shy politeness. Both boys surveyed one another in silence, as young people first introduced usually do. Two days later, they went on a fishing trip together with George's father. Within two months, they were inseparable. With no other boys of his own age to play with, the serious-minded young Henry became quite attached to charming George and his charming personality.  
  
As for our young hero, he took one look at Henry's aristocratic face, perfectly brushed curls, slim figure and elegant clothes, and he fell in love. 


	4. School Daze

A/N Sorry about the delay in posts (for those who care) Have been inundated with work and such, and have had minor writer's block, but now has been fixed. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 3 - School Daze  
  
George and Henry grew closer in friendship, but George desired more. He didn't question whether his 'preferences' were justified, or even sane. But for now he was prepared to wait, and savour until Henry is ready.  
  
School can be a cruel place; it can also be the site of one's most pleasurable memories, and George intended it to be the latter. But the world never moves in the way we would wish. Darcy Senior may have no prejudice against a young steward's son of effeminate appearance, but Sir Edward Littleton, headmaster at Eton, certainly did. A respected family man with a respectably sized estate, he intended to maintain Eton as a respected establishment for respectable young men. And he wasn't allowing any ragamuffins into his school.  
  
George may have been sponsored by Mr Darcy, but he would not be sharing chambers with his dear friend Henry. Littleton had recently fired his valet for incompetence, and here was someone who looked like he needed putting in his place. Being valet to the headmaster of Eton is no small task, and so George missed out on many of his classes.  
  
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George looked out of his chamber window next door to the headmaster's quarters. There on the courtyard bench sat young Henry Darcy, resplendent in his smart navy uniform and red sash. Always dedicated to his studies, he quietly read a large black leather-bound book that lay across his lap. The early evening glow cast a shadow over half his face, emphasising the faultless profile. His slim fingers, untainted by rough work, caressed the page he was reading, and George's eyes instantly misted over in imagined pleasure.  
  
George glanced down at his own lined scarred hands. Being valet to the headmaster of Eton also entailed a great deal of polishing of numerous silver and brass trophies, not to mention the shaky art of shaving a fifty- three year old man's face with a bare blade. In fear of cutting Littleton's skin, George often ended up injuring his own fingers.  
  
George looked back to where Darcy had been seated and started slightly when he saw he was not there. A faint tingling on the nape of his neck made him turn his gaze towards the building on the opposite side of the courtyard. And there stood Henry, gazing directly at him. When their eyes, met, his mouth lifted in a calm smile of friendship. George's response was more strained, but seemingly composed none-the-less.  
  
Good God, he is so beautiful. His smiling countenance, his perfectly sculpted cheekbones, his finely tailored uniform, his tight-fitting breeches, his...  
  
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Even from this distance, Henry sensed an uncomfortable wave pulse in the air between him and his friend. He swiftly strode up the steps into the building, and out of sight of his avid friend. Being a young man gifted with intelligence as well as good looks, he had quickly discovered the plight of his dear friend. But Henry was no rabble-rouser, and he dared not question the headmaster of Eton. In fact, George was indeed honoured to have such an esteemed job. It is not every day that a steward's son living in the North Country has a chance to be valet to Sir Edward Littleton.  
  
Having convinced himself that George was indeed perfectly happy, he walked jauntily to his chamber and removed his clothing to wash himself, unaware that on the other side of the courtyard behind a window stood a steward's son with sandy brown hair and intense blue eyes, watching him eagerly with a monocular in one hand, and his other hand... 


	5. London Nights

A/N I've had a lot of fun writing this chapter, so be warned, things might get a little dirty. Oh yeah, and since it's unlikely that I'll be writing other stories very soon after this is finished, I'd like to dedicate this fic to my good friend GREEN - happy thoughts, comrade, and may the *slash* symbol be with you in times of need. *g* And to any other readers who actually wish to find out how this story ends, I'd better warn you that I'm going to be gearing up to an R-rating in the hopefully-not-too-distant future (*woohoo!* I hear you cry, Green). Hope you enjoy!  
  
Chapter 4 - London Nights  
  
The summer term had finished, and our hero and his beloved Henry were free to go home. But young Darcy was a popular lad at Eton, a favourite among the teachers and therefore of many of the other academically-minded youths in his year, and so Henry and George had been invited to spend their summer holidays with Samuel Marks, a thin, bookish fellow with an unaesthetically large chin and surprisingly fine mousy hair upon his head. His friendship with Henry was faint at best, if not non-existent, but the thought of spending a whole summer in town trailing after his father and his numerous 'gentlemen's clubs' was too much to bear, and so Henry and George would have to do as his excuse for staying away from his father's more innovative pursuits.  
  
The alternative to clubs in town was of course the many glamorous parties and soirees, not to mention the prestigious and ever so tedious Almacks Assembly Rooms. Young Henry, being an awkward Northern chap, felt uncomfortable in the presence of so many beautiful young debutantes in silk and lace fluttering their fans and their lashes in his direction, as the only times he had been in London were with his father on short business trips. But worldly-wise George easily charmed the gentlemen, enchanted the ladies, and guided poor Henry away from the bustle to quiet corners for some peace.  
  
One very excitable woman, a young widow with a penchant for pretty young fresh-faced lads, was most determined in her pursuit of Henry. He dragged George out of the room to a darkened corner behind a pillar in the hallway, and, grasping George's coat lapels in both hands, he brought his face directly in front of his friend's. He whispered desperately to George of his predicament concerning the widow, and urged him to help him out of it, as he always did.  
  
But George's mind was on other things. His nose was at best only one inch away from his friend's; a wild flare of panic could be seen in Henry's eyes, a flare very similar to that caused by passion; Henry's eyelashes were so long, they almost touched his own; their chest were lightly touching and George could almost feel the vibrations of Henry's heart pass into his own breast. His smell was divine - the popular sandalwood cologne worn by most young men, accompanied by the clean fragrance of his hair and his freshly starched neck cloth. As for his lips...  
  
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Henry's first reaction to the kiss was of complete bewilderment. Momentarily addled by his own dilemma with the widow, he instinctively moved his lips in response to George's, but only for a second. In no time, he was pushing George away from him, and with a final look of confusion, loathing and self-disgust, he wiped his mouth swiftly with his sleeve and marched clumsily out from behind the pillar back into the assembly room.  
  
As for George, he closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and smiled. Being an expert in such matters, he was very pleased with the current situation. That first intake of breath from Henry had not been caused by surprise, oh no... He ran his finger slowly across his lips, detecting a slight moistness that was not from his own mouth. After a moment of self- reflection, he walked leisurely back into the assembly room and walked directly to the refreshments' table. With a glass of punch in one hand and a pastry in the other, he watched Henry as he gracelessly strode towards Samuel and forcedly engaged him in conversation, no doubt to take his mind off the little 'event' that had just taken place.  
  
Suddenly, Henry turned his head and his eyes were captured by George's. Holding his gaze, George bit slowly into his pastry with a seductive smirk. A quick spark of disorientation lit up Henry's eyes, and he quickly turned his head away, but not quickly enough for him not to catch George lifting his punch glass to him in salute. Let the games begin... 


	6. Darcy's Monologue

Chapter 5 - Darcy's Monologue  
  
How curious. To think that all these years, going out fishing with George, playing with George, sharing *chambers* with George - he was a queer. What still puzzles me is that he imagined that *I*, Henry Fitzwilliam Darcy, would respond to his advances! The thought is laughable.  
  
No, I cannot, will not, tell my father, or George's father for that matter - I will be honourable and consider the fact that he has been a good friend to me these past three years. What friend would I be if I were to disregard his deficiencies and judge him with prejudice?  
  
Yes, that is the way forward - I will acknowledge him as a friend, but not as intimately as was previously customary - that idea in now totally abhorrent. I will persuade my father to continue his patronage of George, but perhaps to send him to a different school? No, how would I explain my reasoning without disclosing the truth. The truth being...that I cannot bear to have him near me lest I forget myself.  
  
No, stop this. I must not think such things - that kiss was wrong. I am a Christian of noble lineage, and bringing myself down to the level of queers and stewards' sons' will not be proper, let alone moral. What would my father think of me? What would my mother have thought if she were still alive? That her son, her Henry, was sexually attracted to...another...man...  
  
But he is a steward's son, after all - what can be expected of him? Someone of his status could not even begin to comprehend the great shame I would bring upon my family were I to *dally* with him. Yet...what harm would it do if I...kissed him and no one knew about it? Nothing would happen - Father would not think me beneath dignity, George would be happy, and I would be...satisfied...oh...yes...  
  
No, no, no! I cannot allow lust to drive my reasoning. I am not some ragtag fellow with nothing better to do in life. But...what have I to do this summer? My father is not in London, Samuel is, well, *there* but not paying much attention to either of us, and I and George have chambers that are next door to each other...Think of the opportunities that could arise...  
  
Dear George, such an innocent charming face - who could tell that such *passion* lurked within him? Who could tell such passion of *this* type lay in me? Why do I even need to question myself on this matter? The answer is so obvious, and George is so pretty... 


	7. Reciprocation

A/N I'm sorry this fic has so many chapters in it. I'm always slagging off stories that are very long with no significant plot developments occurring, so I'm feeling a bit hypocritical. It's not my fault I can't write decent prose very quickly, unlike some people who can rattle off a whole story in one night (and I mean you, Green - damn you and your brilliant fics) But I'll soon be getting to the exciting parts (i.e. good ole-fashioned slashy smut *g*) Happy reading, folks!  
  
Chapter 6 - Reciprocation  
  
Matters were not proceeding as George had planned. Instead of feeling uncomfortable in his presence, Henry seemed to have tapped into some source of fortitude. George was now on the receiving end of many a disparaging remark - innuendos, if you will - as though to say that he *pitied* him for his *weakness*!  
  
Weakness? Ha! Henry is the one who is weak - I can see him blush whenever I catch his eye; And not a blush of embarrassment, either. It's lust, I swear it is! George stalked around the grounds at Hyde Park, disguising his angry trampling of the grass as exercise. The bustling matrons and dandified youths around him paid no heed, but for one young fellow standing aside against a tree trunk.  
  
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Henry breathed in deeply and grimaced slightly at the overwhelming smell of ladies' perfume that even the fresh dewy air could not dispel. He himself was the recipient of many appreciative glances from the swooning young ladies partaking of their daily 'exercise', and quite a number of older women for that matter. But Henry was contemplating no women; only George was in his mind. These past few days had been torture for him. He had attempted to distance himself from George, convince him that he felt no lust for him, *anything*.  
  
But he still could not prevent himself from blushing every now and then. After all, George was not so popular in London society merely for his conversation. The reminder of that kiss now lingered in his mind for too many hours of the day for him to deny his desires. Henry may be a Christian of noble lineage, but he was never one to deceive himself, if he could help it.  
  
As George walked swiftly up and down the green, the trees overhead cast interesting shadows upon his face. One moment, his light brown hair turned an angelic blond, the next into a dark colour similar to his own hair. But those beautiful eyes never changed. Even from this distance, Henry could see the sparks of anger, frustration and ...dare he say it?... love in the pupils. His striding repeatedly pulled his breeches taught around his thighs - well-formed muscles, not too bulky, just right to create nice curves that one could run one's hands along up to his...  
  
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In that instant, George turned his head and saw Henry standing there against the tree trunk. Their eyes met and George recognised the glow in Henry's gaze. At *last*, he wanted to yell. See how pointless it is to deny your own true feelings? You feel just as I do - and you *want* it, just as I want you... But as he thought these things, even George realised he was being too hasty. There was no love in Henry's gaze, just the initial burst of lust at the start of a new relationship. But that can wait - George was nothing if not persistent, and he was prepared to show Henry just how *deeply* two young men can care for each other.  
  
This love business was rather tricky, but our hero could adapt to all manner of problems. After all, the journey had just begun...and what a journey it was going to be. 


	8. Ante Coital

Chapter 7 - Ante-Coital  
  
That same evening after their excursion to Hyde Park proved to be the perfect opportunity for George to start *educating* young Henry Darcy. As he sat on his bed, he strategically planned what to wear when he walked next door to Henry's rooms to discuss the matter at hand. Though his courage was high after seeing that long-awaited look in Henry's eyes at the park, he was still a little wary. For George was a handsome young man, and all handsome young men are vain to some extent and want to acquit themselves with style, whatever the occasion.  
  
Yes, the 'mostly-dressed-but-not-quite-decent' look would do nicely. He'd wear his shirtsleeves and his second-best waistcoat; first best would be far too obvious, even for George. No, no, no waistcoat, too difficult to unbutton quickly; or wait, leave it unbuttoned, yes *perfect*. Breeches would be no problem - all of them are the same colour anyway. Slippers, or no slippers? No, boots will be more adequate, even if they are hell to take off. And definitely no cravat. A bit of neck and chest to entice the prey is always a good idea.  
  
Having prepared his outfit, he paced his room slowly, thinking of what to say. But this was not too trying, for our George has honed all his skills of etiquette and conversation, in and out of the bedroom. The hair would *have* to be a little dishevelled, as though this jaunt to Henry's chambers were totally unplanned and impulsive. A sign of irrational and unrestrained passion, how appropriate.  
  
With a quick spurt of cologne and a final messing up of his hair, 20-year- old George Wickham picked up his bedside candle and stepped out of his chambers into the hall. A quick glance left and right to check there were no gossiping maids or footmen lurking in the wings, and he knocked firmly on Henry's door and walked in without waiting for a response.  
  
A/N For those who want to know what happens *in* the bedroom, I will be posting an *interlude* chapter called 'Skin Deep'. I have to post it separately because that part is most definitely R-rated, so be warned...*g*. However if smut 'of this persuasion' is not your cup of tea, then feel free to continue reading the PG-13 chapters that are to follow - the story will still make sense. See, aren't I the perfect diplomat? 


	9. Post Coital

Chapter 8 - Post-Coital  
  
The next morning, the maid who was assigned to clean Darcy's chambers was most surprised to find no one in the bed. The bed itself was neatly made, and all seemed undisturbed, bar a statue of Eros that had fallen from its stand, and a somewhat mishandled copy of Ovid's 'Remedia Amoris' on the armchair. The chambers next door belonging to WIckham were likewise empty, and so it was presumed that the two youths had taken advantage of the good weather for an early morning walk around town.  
  
This was true. Both men were strolling through Hyde Park, almost empty on account of the early hour. They were chatting cheerfully about everything and nothing, as most couples do after their first session of lovemaking. Wickham spoke of his admiration of Darcy, how he had 'loved from afar' for the best part of five years until he could hold himself back no longer that fateful night of the kiss at Almacks. Darcy himself said little. He was far too aware of the few gardeners that were tending to the flowerbeds and topiary. Though far away, they still posed a threat to his feeling secure that his *fall from grace* would remain undiscovered.  
  
After some time, Wickham sensed his lover's strained attitude and put it down to the confusion of the newly in-love. Handsome and charming as he was, George was confident that he had succeeded in making Henry fall in love with him.  
  
He was partially justified in that belief, if Henry's bashful blushes and slight smiles were anything to go by. But, being a steward's son, he had no idea of the extent of betrayal Darcy felt he had dealt to his good name and Christian roots. As they both turned onto a certain path, George's hand brushed against Henry's, perhaps by design, perhaps not. But Henry instinctively jerked his hand back lest George do something unthinkable like attempt to hold his hand in public.  
  
George took the hint and despondently led the way back through the park to Samuel's townhouse. George was disgusted with Henry, and with himself. He had been so elated by his initial success that he had taken things with Henry too swiftly, and now Henry was feeling *uncomfortable* in his presence! What to do?  
  
For once in his life, the ever-resourceful George did *not* know what to do, and as he and Henry strode in uncomfortable silence up the steps to the house, George realised that something must be done before Henry drifted further away, or worse, found another man...  
  
A/N Just a quick note to mention that BINGLEY'S COMING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER! The plot thickens...*g* 


	10. New Places

Chapter 9 - New Places  
  
Though matters between the lovers were less than satisfactory, there was nothing to be done but to leave them as they stood. George decided that Henry's susceptibility to his charm was lessening, and so concluded that a cessation of contact between the two of them would be the best course of action. After all, absence *is* meant to make the heart grow fonder.  
  
Either way, Henry and George would be remaining in company as often as they previously used to, a thorough avoidance would undoubtedly alert the gossiping ninnies of the social world to their dilemma. And that was definitely not desired, despite George's claims that he would willingly proclaim his preferences to the world for one of Henry's endearing yet highly arousing kisses; a comment which was made in one of George's more sentimental moments soon after that first time in Darcy's bed.  
  
This period of pseudo-separation lasted through their second year at Eton. As both Henry and George were 21, Darcy Senior felt it would be beneficial for the boys if he sent them both to Cambridge right away.  
  
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As soon as George stepped out of the carriage to view the prospect of the Cambridge grounds, he knew he would fit right in. Cambridge was far more modern compared to Eton and that vile mole of a man Littleton. No one was going to make *him* their blasted valet here. As he stepped back into the carriage and sat next to Henry who had remained inside, he turned to him with a lusty smile and said, 'Perhaps we will be sharing chambers after all.'  
  
Darcy shifted uncomfortably in his seat and turned to look out the window, a habit he had picked up from his father. But rather than dispelling his discomfiture, it increased it when he spied some rent boys standing by the side of the local alehouse blatantly flaunting their wares. He whisked his head aside before they caught him staring. George, of course, noticed this and subsequently noticed the boys. Not bad, he thought, far better quality than those disgusting pimply youngsters at Eton.  
  
The carriage finally entered the courtyard in front of the East Wing where their rooms were situated. As the Dean led them down the corridor to their chambers, Darcy felt that every person they passed was staring at him. His disgrace must surely be visible to all around, surrounding him like a damned halo. He determined to talk but little and to gaze straight ahead. George on the other hand was carefully taking stock of all they passed, particularly of convenient shadowed niches for trysting and of escape routes to the alehouse and its rent boys. He *was* only a man, after all. If Henry wasn't giving him any, was it not perfectly fair that he seek his own pleasure, even if he had to pay for it?  
  
A/N I apologise, my dear fans. I know I said Bingley would be in this chapter, but looks like he'll have to wait till the next chapter. Sorry! 


	11. Wet Shirts

Chapter 10 - Wet Shirts  
  
A/N Oh, I've been waiting for a chance to put that as my title...yesss...*g* And thank you Green for giving me the idea for this chapter when my useless brain couldn't think of anything.  
  
It was summer of their second year at Cambridge and both George and Henry, being lightly built athletic young men, were recruited onto the boating team to play against Oxford that year. Henry Darcy excelled in this sport, and so he was appointed Captain, an honour which he secretly delighted in, though his natural modesty dictated he not flaunt it deliberately. George, on the other hand, was like most vain handsome young men - more interested in the delights of the ale-mug and the opposite sex, or not as the case may be. And so Mr Johnson, sports' master at Cambridge, despairing of ever making George realise the great importance the boat-race was to the university's reputation, placed him as an extra in the reserve team, though George had desired to be placed as second rower so as to be able to share an oar and a bench with Henry.  
  
Henry in fact felt highly relieved when Mr Johnson placed George as an extra. Having him sitting next to him, both of them only in their shirtsleeves and breeches and most probably soaking wet with river water, it would be beyond him to remain focused on his rowing performance. In fact his entire studies had been proceeding rather poorly of late due to Wickham's distracting smirks and innuendoes. It seems that our George had decided that enough was enough; his period of abstinence was officially discontinued. And as he was witness to the effect his actions were having on Henry, he felt that a sultry summer night would be the perfect atmosphere for a second seduction. And what better way to celebrate a victory at the boat race than a tastefully arranged plate of cakes, a glass of wine and a soft feather bed?  
  
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At ten o' clock in the morning precisely, the starter's gun was fired and the two opposing teams veritably flew across the water in their boats. Resplendent in his captain's colours was Henry at the front of the Cambridge boat, the muscles in his arms contracting and relaxing with military precision as he pulled his oar back and forth in time with Mr Johnson's shouting 'Pull! Pull! Pull!' Our hero George sits by the river bank watching him with a pair of binoculars he had 'borrowed' from a first year student who was unfortunately lacking in height and confidence.  
  
The splashing water repeatedly drenched the boaters, rendering their shirts to see-through, skin-tight pieces of nothing. Even from this distance George could see Henry's hair plastered to his scalp with water and sweat, and he imagined himself running his fingers through the tangled curls after a vigorous bout of lovemaking.  
  
The end of the match was almost upon them, and so the spectators scuttled down from their seats towards the last length of river. Wickham cheered along for Cambridge with the other students, but in his mind he was cheering for Henry; his beloved innocent Henry, who was so naturally beautiful, yet who repeatedly rejected his advances, the damned puritan. Let's just pray that Cambridge wins this year and that tonight calls for some *merry-making* of a private nature for the couple.  
  
The mischance that Oxford would win of course occurred to George. With a cursory glance he scanned the Oxford boaters, but he halted when he saw the Captain. What sheer stroke of genius among the gods was it that ordained all captains be so...attractive? With curly blond hair and the customary shiny blue eyes, he looked like an angel just waiting to be seduced by the sinful indulgence of lust. And who better to introduce him to such an enterprise than yours truly? It seemed his might tonight would be *pleasant* whatever the outcome of the race.  
  
George stood up straight, ruffled up his hair in a rakish fashion, set his coat more comfortably across his shoulders and strolled towards the finish line at a slow pace, preparing to congratulate the winner. 


	12. The Rival

Chapter 11 - The Rival  
  
Back, forth, back, forth, back, forth.....the monotonous motion of the oar was lulling Darcy into a dream-like state - the outside world, the cheering crowd and his cold soggy clothes were all forgotten as his train of thought landed on that one subject matter that had been holding his mind hostage for the last two years: George. Instinctively he knew that he would be looking at him; with his clothes being so transparent as to be none existent, he felt exposed to George's ever-lustful gaze. The thought sent a thrill down his spine, and unfortunately he lost the rhythm of his rowing. He fought against the river current to return the boat to its original speed.  
  
But all was lost; being captain and therefore at the front of the boat, Henry's small error caused the Oxford team to lead and eventually win the race. Mentally beating himself about the head in mortification, Henry stepped out of the boat along with the other Cambridge boaters through the straining crowds towards the eagerly waiting George. But what's this? George was not waiting for *him*, but was heartily shaking hands with the captain of the Oxford team, clapping him on the back, smiling at him. George had only ever smiled like that for Henry, or so he thought. It seems that George had had enough of Henry's routine rebuffs. It was a rather strange experience for Henry being the rejected party, so to speak.  
  
Henry was shocked by how much pain he felt on seeing this new development. With a scowl upon his face and a heavier tread, he strode towards where George and the Oxford captain were standing, veritably *hugging*, for god's sake! Could they not control their urges until they were behind closed doors? People would see, *he* would see, and he would hurt inside...  
  
As this thought passed through his mind, he halted, momentarily reflecting on this revelation of sorts. It seems the ever-stiff-and-formal Darcy *did* have feelings, rather intense feelings if the pained expression on his face was anything to go by. From his position 20 yards away from the two, Henry carefully inspected this new rival. Dark honey coloured curls, which would probably turn a brighter gold when dry, a little shorter than Wickham, merry blue eyes and a ready smile upon his face. Nice set of teeth, white and square; the face was quite feminine, delicately featured. His figure was rather effeminate too, more so than George's. More like pretty ballet dancer than a boating captain. Legs and chest well-formed, especially the calves...  
  
What the hell was he doing? Henry shook his head to dispel the disturbing images in his head. It was bad enough that this pretty blond was attracting George, far worse that *he* should be attracted to him. For god's sake, he did not even know his name! By this time, Henry had reached George and the blond. He dithered uncomfortably at the edge of the crowd in his slowly drying clothes. A first year Cambridge student tapped him on the shoulder to hand him a towel. He took it without thinking, then immediately used it as a handkerchief as a sneezing fit suddenly took hold of him.  
  
George and the Oxford captain turned to look at him. George quickly looked Henry up and down to make a comparison between him and the rather tasty- looking Oxfordian standing by him. Within 5 minutes of meeting, George was certain that this man would be an easy yet highly satisfying catch. Let Henry stew over *this*, he thought a tad angrily. Glancing round indifferently towards Henry, now with a red nose and watery eyes from his sneezing fit, he addressed him disdainfully, "So, looks like your rowing skills aren't what you thought they were - you'd been so sure you could win this hands down. Why not come over here and meet the man who bested you."  
  
Henry sidled over and stood directly in front of this blond-haired blue- eyes man who had so suddenly and easily diverted George from himself. "Henry, I'd like you to meet Charlie Theodore Bingley."enryHenr 


	13. The Dinner Party

Chapter 12 - The Dinner Party  
  
A/N This chapter is a bit strange - it's almost midnight, and I've been having terrible writer's block lately, so this may not be as well-written as I would like. Please review to let me know what you think.  
  
The candles were lit, the tableware arranged to perfection, and Darcy and Wickham stood up as the innkeeper announced 'Mr. Bingley to see you, sirs.' Wickham had decided that such excellent rowing as Bingley and Darcy had displayed two nights ago at the race was most deserving of a celebratory dinner. And since his planned seduction of Bingley had most decidedly collapsed when the inept greenhorn couldn't pick up *any* of his hints, he felt that a threesome at dinner would have to do, though a threesome of another sort would have been preferable.  
  
The three men exchanged the customary greetings and sat down in the strategically placed chairs by the fire; Wickham and Bingley on either side of a chaise longue, Darcy in an armchair opposite. A heavy silence fell over them for a moment, which was gamely broken by Bingley as he cheerfully exclaimed how *delighted* he was to have met them, how *delightful* the last few days had been, and how *delighted* he would be to tell his family about it all.  
  
Needless to say, Wickham was heartily sick of the man's delightful conversation by the time dinner arrived. But being an enterprising young man, he charmed his way through and paid an unseemly amount of attention to Bingley, veritably ignoring Darcy. And the effect on Darcy was clear to see: tormented by thoughts of himself with Wickham, Bingley with Wickham, *himself* with *Bingley*, Darcy had come to the conclusion that tonight was not going to be a pleasant night and that he had somehow irrevocably lost his mind. He felt ill at ease, miserable, disgusted with Wickham's behaviour, and mostly disgusted with himself for being so foolish.  
  
As they sat at the table to eat, Wickham grimly reflected that his plan seemed to be working, as they always did. The blond was certainly a dimwit, and so he decided to abandon his featherbed strategy and settle for just using him as a potential rival for Darcy - for desperate times were calling for desperate measures, and he was becoming more and more frustrated with Darcy's single-minded rejections when it was clear to all and sundry what he truly desired. Would the man never forget his blasted *roots* and just cast off his inhibitions for once? Wickham was at a loss - was Darcy never going to turn back? If not, what was the alternative? A daft blond or paid whores.  
  
Daft or not, Bingley was certainly enjoying himself. The food was delicious, the decor tasteful, and the company were *delightful*, especially this Wickham chap - very affable and pleasant. A little overly friendly perhaps, too many pats on the back and such - perhaps he has not many intimate acquaintances and just wishes for a good friend. The other one was a little on the moody side to be sure, but all-in-all a nice sort of fellow. All he requires is a good glass of port and a cigar and I'm sure he'd be on top form, and then what a jolly good time they would all have!  
  
As these *quaint* yet well-meaning thoughts passed through Bingley's mind, the dark moody one sat silently in his chair, looking at him. A sense of well-being was settling over Darcy - perhaps this Bingley chap was just what he needed. A nice, sociable man who could dig him out of the hole he seemed to have been in for the last 7 years with Wickham; someone to distract him, perhaps let him tag along on a couple of social swirls about town - lord knows he wouldn't enjoy it, but anything would be better than the torture he was going through at this very moment.  
  
Meanwhile, Wickham was having some rather anti-social feelings towards the both of them - Bingley remained as pretty and stupid as ever, and Darcy remained as gorgeous and grim-faced as...But *what* is he doing? Why is he looking at the blond with such a complaisant smile upon his face? Why does he refuse to look at *me* in such a manner? As soon as this thought passed through his mind, he berated himself for being so sappy and *needy*. He was George Wickham, dependent on nothing and no one, who could have whatever he chooses, damn it! And he had made the decision that he didn't need Henry Fitz-bloody-william Darcy anymore! 


	14. Wickham's Monologue

Chapter 13 - Wickham's Monologue  
  
A/N I've beaten my record - the time now is 1am. But I am a little worried about this chapter - to me and my tired brain, something just doesn't ring true. What do you think, readers?  
  
What is wrong with him?! Ever since that bloody dinner party with that half- wit blond, he has been getting far too cosy with him for my liking - corresponding every week, Darcy even stayed *overnight* at his townhouse once! He does not feel at all uncomfortable in my presence any longer, or as uncomfortable as one would feel when in close proximity to a toad. Not like before, that one beautiful night two and a half years ago...  
  
Look what he has reduced me to! I have lost interest in all other sexual prospects - nothing satisfies me, no matter how adventurous I am. Am I mentally unbalanced? I have been thinking about him every night since I was 16 - surely this is a sign of insanity? No, I am merely a victim of unrequited love...yet why does it hurt *so* much? I swear he delights in pain, denying me and himself of what we have...what we had...  
  
I hate him - more often than not I have drowned my sorrows in the hope that I might be even marginally happy, but *no*, that stupid, *stupid* part of my heart still beats for him. He does not care, he has never cared - never cared that I have devoted myself to him all these years. I hate him, hate him, need him, love him...  
  
No! Never again! If the bastard thinks that he can just sweep me aside like a piece of lint, he does not know me. So what if he has riches, noble connections, beauty, everything that I have longed for? He does not deserve to wear the clothes he dons each morning. That should me. *Me!* I at least have self-worth, I am not cold-hearted and cruel, devoid of every proper feeling. We barely exchange two words in a day, despite the fact that we share *chambers*.  
  
Every time I catch his eye, I can still find a trace of regret buried within all the hate that veritably radiates from his countenance. But you see?! He still wishes that things were as they had been that one night. Ha! But they never will be - I will not allow it! It will hurt me for the rest of my days, but I swear I will make him miserable. Someday, somehow, I will make him experience such great pain that he will be sorry he ever messed with George Wickham. Let him feel what it is to love unguardedly and then have his love thrown back in his face... 


	15. The Funeral

Chapter 14 - The Funeral  
  
A week after turning 23, Darcy rushed to Pemberley to hear the news that his illustrious and much loved father had died. Servants, tenants, merchants and fortune-seekers all turned their beady gazes towards him, and Darcy was exposed to such displays of obsequiousness as to make him long for someone to insult him. But of course the new master of Pemberley could not possibly admit this to anyone, least of all those socially under his power. No, he would keep a passive face, straight back and formal demeanour before his tenants and servants - he would be someone they would look up to, would not dare to question; someone his father would be proud of.  
  
The funeral was as lavish an affair as was warranted by a member of the Darcy clan. Endless streams of villagers, friends and neighbours came to pay their respects. Through all this the new Mr. Darcy let no one see his grief, though grief there was and in abundance. There were but two people who sensed the extent of his unhappiness - Georgiana, his young but sharp- minded little sister, and George Wickham. Though he did not acknowledge Darcy, Wickham did feel some faint obligation to attend the funeral of the man who had provided so much for him. As usual, he stood amongst the swarms of fashionable gentlefolk, now and then sneaking a glance at Darcy standing alone overseeing the whole exhibition.  
  
Look at him, thought Wickham viciously, acting the grand lord of the manor, when in fact he is longing to curl up and weep like a babe. Good! Let him suffer somewhat.As heartless as Wickham did seem, he himself was not untouched - oh, that he would feel this much for me if I were to die. He momentarily turned himself towards Darcy, intending to comfort him, when he spied a blond curly head making his way towards him. Damn! Would that Bingley should fall to the ground and turn into a vegetable - such beauty as his is wasted on one so dumb. Ah, well, let the blond convey his sympathy, he is sure to muddle his words something awful and cause Darcy to walk away in disgust. Now *that* would be a spectacle worth watching, far more enjoyable than this dreary affair.  
  
Bingley stepped up to Darcy and put his hand on his shoulder. 'I did not know your father, but I'm sure he would be proud to see you as you are now.' Darcy attempted to smile faintly and mentally debated whether to remove Bingley's hand from his shoulder. But no, their friendship was not sexually charged like his relationship with Wickham - he was safe. He turned and thanked Bingley for his well-meaning words. 'Why do we not go to my study for a glass of wine? The constant activity has been a strain, I owe.' With a final pat on the back, Bingley turned with Darcy towards the peace and solitude that a comfortable room and a glass of claret could bestow.  
  
Having viewed his spectacle, Wickham was the one to turn away in disgust. I will not stay here to watch them get all cosy and romantic. Seems I was wrong - it is not my looks and demeanour which repulsed Darcy, it was my lack of status. Well, if he prefers his whores to come from rich families, *let* him have them as they please. I care nothing for them both!  
  
The following morning, Darcy heard from the housekeeper that Wickham had left yesterday evening for London, where it was presumed he would make his fortune. By what means, Darcy did not wish to know. 


	16. In Lieu

Chapter 15 - In Lieu  
  
'Pardon me for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Wickham is here to see you.'  
  
Darcy kept his face carefully impassive as he bid the butler return to his duties. What on Earth could he be doing here? Has he not anything better to do than to turn up at my doorstep and make my life a living hell?! I suppose London did not prove to be as prosperous as he had anticipated.Lord knows what he has been doing with himself there.  
  
It had been five months since his father's funeral, and Darcy had heard nothing of Wickham all that time. If he were frightfully honest, he would have to admit that he had missed George - as uncomfortable as being in his presence was, he had become so accustomed to it over the last 8 years that it had become a significant part of his existence - his lifeline, if you will. True, the constant paperwork and business meetings necessary for the running of the Darcy estates had kept him fully occupied everyday; but at night, when all servants had gone to bed and he could lie down in peace, Wickham's face would appear before him and his heart would twist with a curious mixture of pain, sorrow, disgust and arousal.  
  
The door to his study opened and the butler announced, 'Mr Wickham, sir.' He had not changed a bit, thought Darcy. His clothes looked to be of the latest fashion, though perhaps not of the finest quality. He walked to a nearby table, placed his hat, cane and gloves upon it and turned towards the desk where Darcy still sat. As he swaggered towards him, Darcy slowly rose from his seat and instinctively eyed him up and down. Wickham caught this and smiled rakishly.  
  
'Ahem, well, to what do I owe this visit, Wickham? I had heard you were in London last. The delights of the city evidently did not satisfy you,' Darcy said deliberately harshly.  
  
'Oh, I was more than satisfied; I felt that you might be in need of some.satisfaction, and I felt it my duty to attempt to relieve you.'  
  
Darcy blushed furiously and, angrily now, 'Wickham, what do you want? Please do not take up my valuable time. I have a vast amount of correspondence to deal with, there is no time for this sort of tomfoolery. Is it money? You know very well that a position at Kympton Parsonage was made available to you in my father's will, yet you chose to.'  
  
'Yes, yes, yes, I know that, we all know that.' Wickham turned from where he had been fondling a miniature statue of Apollo upon the mantelpiece, and raising his hand in a theatrical gesture, 'but I feel, that the church life is not the life for one such as myself.'  
  
Within a quarter of an hour, Darcy handed over to Wickham a bill of three thousand pounds in lieu of the position at Kympton. Wickham smirked winningly, 'Thank you, I am most exceedingly obliged,' He touched his upper lip provocatively with his tongue and then swept towards the door, sweeping up his belongings from the table where he had left them. Darcy stared at his back for the two seconds it took him to get to the door. As he turned the door handle, Wickham looked back once more and Darcy's eyes locked with his momentarily. Darcy blinked, but it was too late, he had quit the room.  
  
Having been summoned by the master, the butler entered the study to find his master sitting at his desk, seemingly staring at the grounds visible through the window, with a most peculiar expression in his eyes. He soon left with orders to bring the decanter of good brandy from the library and bring it to the study with a large tumbler. Darcy sat in his late father's chair, mindlessly stroking the chair arm with his finger. He did not get back to work that evening, for he could not help contemplating why Wickham had looked at him in that one moment with such *hatred* in his eyes. 


	17. Without George

Chapter 16 - Without George  
  
Being Master of Pemberly proved not to be as unpleasant as Darcy had dreaded. In fact, over the four years that he had been in that most esteemed position, he had settled quite comfortably as ruler of all he surveyed; some might say, *too* comfortably. The lands were prospering; finances that had seemed too dire to contemplate had now been settled. The servants and tenants seemed to respect him. And now his dear little sister was growing up into a pretty young lady. She was a little shy, perhaps - much like myself when I was her age, Darcy thought fondly. She had turned 15 but a month ago and had been suitably delighted by the surprise birthday dinner he had planned for her.  
  
He smiled whilst strolling through his lily gardens as he remembered how Bingley had approached her with a book of poems he had purchased for her, and how she had blushed most rosily at the gesture. Though Bingley was a handsome man, he knew that Georgiana was in no danger - there had always been a friendly acquaintance between them, there was no reason to believe it would change. Darcy cast his mind back to his own 15th birthday, when George Wickham had sought to frighten him by creeping up behind and leaping upon, pretending to be a highwayman or some such nonsense.  
  
No, enough, Darcy berated himself mildly. No use pondering upon the past, when the future is before you. Over the past years, without George near him to seemingly turn his life upside-down, things had proceeded most calmly. His friendship with Bingley had grown good and solid. Never had those.*feelings* come upon him when in Bingley's presence. Nor with any other man. It seems that Wickham was a special case - some unidentifiable link between them that could not be overcome. Without being aware of it, he thought back to their last meeting in his study three and a half years ago.  
  
'Darcy!? Oh, *there* you are, Mr Darcy. Why, we had all feared you had *vanished* into thin air! Come, you will not wander around in this dreary old garden - Louisa and I have prepared a new duet on the piano! You simply *must* hear it.' Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Would the woman never shut up! Darcy succumbed as he was towed away by Caroline, Bingley's younger sister, who at times seemed a more torturous nightmare than Newgate Gaol. It was clear to all and sundry that she wanted to marry him, and it was clear to everyone else that he had no intention of doing such a thing - everyone else, that is, except Caroline.  
  
Just as he was dragged through the hall, a passing footman stopped them and handed him a letter with the post-mark of Ramsgate upon the front. Caroline saw and eagerly professed a desire to read it, assuming it was from Georgiana, who was indeed at Millford House in Ramsgate. However the writing upon the envelope was not his sister's. Excusing himself abruptly, he freed his arm from Caroline's claws and strode into the nearest empty room, which turned out to be the music room.  
  
The letter was from an acquaintance of his who had a property in Ramsgate and who Darcy had asked to look out for Georgiana as she mingled with Ramsgate society, as any caring brother would do for his little sister. As he scanned the letter, his eyes halted at some phrases at the end of the letter.  
  
'.rather dashing fellow has joined our midst.'  
  
'.Miss Darcy is quite taken with him.'  
  
'.says he's an old friend of the Darcy family.'  
  
'.by the name of Wickham.'  
  
His eyes wide with rage and alarm, Darcy resolved that very second to go to Ramsgate. What could have taken George there? Surely it cannot be coincidence - but it must be.Then why has he said that Georgiana was 'quite taken with him'?  
  
Within half an hour, Darcy said a rushed farewell to Bingley, distractedly claiming that some urgent business needed taking care of, and that he would write to inform them of when he would return. He stepped into the carriage and settled back on the cushions, dreading to imagine what Wickham was getting up to this time. 


	18. All For His Sake

Chapter 17 - All For His Sake  
  
'How dare you!'  
  
Darcy stood rigidly in the library at Millford House, clutching the chair back in the vain hope that it might recover some of his self-control. He stared furiously at the figure slouching carelessly against the bookshelf, seeming merely mildly miffed yet somewhat pleased with himself.  
  
'How dare you ingratiate yourself with my sister in such a manner? She is but 15! You have the nerve to use a young girl and persuade her to leave all her family and friends purely for your own gain! Have you no decency? No morality? Evidently not! You will leave Millford House immediately and if you treasure your existence on Earth you shall never seek to impose yourself upon myself, my sister or my friends. Do you understand?'  
  
Before Wickham could make the sardonic comment that he had undoubtedly formed in his mind, Darcy stalked across to the door and opened it to find the startled footman standing dutifully to attention in the hall. 'Make arrangements for a carriage to be readied. *Mr Wickham* is leaving.' As the footman left to do his bidding, Darcy turned back into the library and shut the door behind him. This time Wickham spoke before Darcy could begin.  
  
'And how are you going to keep me away from your most precious sister and friends? You seemed to have made rather a hash of it, if I was able to get this far.'  
  
'You.'  
  
Wickham easily overrode him, his eyes widening with the thrill of the argument. 'And believe me, I took little enjoyment in wooing your sister. Would that she had brains and beauty to match her fortune.'  
  
Darcy could not hold back as he rushed at Wickham and held him by his shirt front. 'You bastard! Have you made nothing of yourself these past four years? So that is why you went after Georgiana.'  
  
But Wickham was not listening. Being near to Darcy after so long, all those beautiful memories came flooding back; watching his every movement as he walked around a room, that first kiss behind the pillar at Almacks, their night of glorious sex.Wickham could not resist as he leaned closer to touch Darcy's lips with his own. 'No, this is why...'  
  
Before they made contact, Darcy pushed him away, still retaining his grip on the front of Wickham's shirt. He glared disbelievingly at him. 'What! That is why? Because of your misguided lustfulness? No! You shall never have me! I do not want you, I do not want any man! 'Tis immoral and distasteful - I will not sink to your level, George Wickham.'  
  
'Oh, so I am to be ashamed of me feelings, am I?' he raged. 'At least I am honest to myself, unlike you, oh-so-high-and-mighty. I am proud of what I feel. I am honourable.'  
  
'Honourable?! You call plotting against a childhood friend and his sister for money and revenge "honourable"?'  
  
There was a short hiatus as Darcy released him from his hold in repulsion. Wickham managed to disguise his stumbling and, somewhat shakily, 'Revenge? Hah! You think too highly of yourself, old man. I care nothing for you.' He glared defiantly at the face that had been so dear to him, and saw not one trace of regret. He knew then that he had lost. What had been could never return, no matter how hard he tried. What to do?  
  
Drawing himself upright, he managed a semblance of his old cocky self. 'I hear you are still at it with that blond half-wit, Bingley isn't it? Does his rich background make him a more satisfactory whore?' he said rashly, his judgement clouded by the pain of loss boiling within him.  
  
Darcy replied in a shocked tone, 'There is *nothing* of that nature between myself and Bingley! How did.' He was silent as he carefully contemplated the meaning of Wickham's last few words. He reared back stiffly in surprise. 'So, you were jealous.'  
  
'No!' Wickham's slightly panicky expression gave him away. 'No, I, but.'  
  
There was a jarring knock at the door and both men heaved a sigh of annoyance and relief mixed. 'Beggin' your pardon, sirs, but the carriage be ready for Mr. Wickham.' Darcy mumbled a reply and the maid bobbed away politely. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, but then Wickham began, with a resolved and defiant expression upon his face,  
  
'You know, Darce, there are times when I quite moan with despair for your having left me. But by God, I have never hated you as much as I do at this very moment. Look at what you have reduced me to! Because of you and your high-handed dismissal of me, I have become a man possessed. But mark my words, Henry, you shall be made to suffer as I have, and I alone will be the one to implement that suffering. You have not seen the last of me.'  
  
Wickham stepped towards the door, half-expecting, half-hoping that Darcy would respond. But he remained stonily silent, glaring at him fixedly.  
  
'Goodbye, Henry.' He opened the door, went through, and shut it behind him.  
  
Only when Wickham's footsteps down the hall had faded, did Darcy release a shuddering breath. 


	19. Epilogue

Epilogue  
  
The next Darcy heard of Wickham, he had gone to Liverpool to try his hand at trade, though how he would get enough money together to begin was anyone's guess. Georgiana returned to Pemberley with Darcy. Needless to say, he was ever more careful of where he sent his sister to stay, often to such an extent that even Georgiana attempted to reassure him that nothing would go amiss. On occasion, he himself would accompany her on her visits.  
  
One such trip was made to the Bingleys' townhouse in Bath. Miss Caroline Bingley had urged Georgiana to join them there and had sent her many letters extolling the various merits of Bath. Of course, she wrote, Mr Darcy must come as well, for what would Bath be without his dignified presence there? Darcy duly came along with his sister, doubting he would find much enjoyment in the expedition.  
  
One evening, having forfeited the joys of a hectic swirl about town in favour of the peace and quiet of an evening at home, the Bingleys, Hursts and Darcys sat in the drawing room; Mrs Hurst and Caroline attempting to show some enjoyment; Darcy and Bingley playing a relaxed game of chess; Hurst upon the couch, dreaming of God knows what; and Georgiana playing the piano forte for them all.  
  
Having exerted as much effort as she could in displaying her interest in the chess game, Caroline stood up with a yawn and tried to engage the company in some general conversation. After some effort she was successful when Bingley mentioned a property he had been looking to leasing.  
  
'Oh, my steward tells me it is a fine estate, surrounded by fine countryside and in close proximity to a small market town. It.'  
  
'But brother,' cried Caroline, 'what need have we for a ramshackle country estate? Why, this townhouse is perfectly adequate. In fact, I should be happy to spend all the year here in Bath.' Caroline continued to, once again, eulogise the virtues of Bath.  
  
'Now, Caroline, I know you are not fond of the country, but really, the air will do you an immeasurable amount of good. Why, look at Darcy! He spends more than half the year in Derbyshire, and does not he look in the peak of health?'  
  
Before he was used any longer as a point of argument, Darcy interrupted, 'If you decide to lease or not to lease this property, might it not be a good idea to tell us what the estate is called and where it is?'  
  
'Oh, did I not say? Why, it is called 'Netherfield', I believe, somewhere in Hertfordshire if I am not mistaken.' Bingley and his sisters continued to debate over the matter for some time. But Bingley was adamant.  
  
'Tomorrow I shall be going to view the estate. Will you come with me, sisters?' Unsurprisingly, neither wanted to join their brother on a boring excursion through muddy countryside. 'What about you, Darcy? I should be most glad of your opinion of the place.'  
  
'Why not? Seems as good a suggestion as any other.' Darcy gleefully noticed the morose expression on Caroline's face. At least I shall be away from *her* for a day  
  
'Good! Excellent!' Bingley cheered. Then, picking up his glass of wine, 'You know, I feel that Hertfordshire may well provide many diversions for us all. Let us drink a toast. To Netherfield, and all the joys it may bring us!'  
  
Darcy raised his glass and sipped thoughtfully. Divert away, Hertfordshire, let us see what you have in store for Henry Fitzwilliam Darcy.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~THE END~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
A/N Yay! Finished at last! Hope you all liked it, folks! Please review or e- mail to let me know what you thought of it - flamers not prohibited, as long as it's constructive. And thanks again to Green, who is one hell of a good friend to have around. Happy thoughts, man! :-)  
  
----------(exeunt)---------- 


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